Drabbles
by KM2000
Summary: Random drabbles about the children of the Red King.
1. The Worry Within

The Worry Within

Amy knew her son was endowed the moment he opened the package and stared at the photo inside it. She knew by the incredulous look in his eyes, the jaw dropping in shock, and his words. 'Is there another man here?' There was no other man, except the one in the picture Charlie was holding. He—the man in the photo- looked sad and morose, stiff as marble as he held onto the baby in his lap. Charlie stared and stared at it, entranced.

It was to be expected, she supposed. The Yewbeams were a family with strange, magical talents. It had just skipped a generation, that was all. Lyell hadn't been endowed; of course Charlie would be.

Still, she couldn't help but stir her tea with a worried frown on her face.


	2. To Dream of Flight

To Dream of Flight

Whenever Emilia was hurt or scared, which was often, she thought of birds. Birds flying and swooping in the sky, uttering creaks of joy and freedom. She could see them from her bare room at home, and from her dormitory at school, and longed to join them. If she were a bird, she thought wistfully, she could escape from her dull life and the terrifying Dr Bloor, wouldn't have to endure the painful beatings Manfred often gave her for no apparent reason at all. She could spread her wings and launch herself into the sky, up, and away, without a care in the world.

Sometimes she could feel her fingers tingle, and she could imagine the blissful feeling of freedom.


	3. Flames

Flames

The cats slipped into the tower room, mewing softly. There were three of them, one a deep red, another orange, and another yellow. They had been the Red King's leopards, once, and his dear companions. Now they roamed the city, putting right the wrongs done to the descendants of the great magician. They always knew when someone needed their help.

They crept up to the man slumped over the piano, saw with alarm his heavy, blank eyes and his lost gaze. Was it too late for him? They rubbed their heads against his legs, purring, trying to transfer the strength of the Red King into him. Don't, they said in their own language, the language of animals. Don't give up yet. You have a wife and son waiting for you, longing to see you. Soon it will be over.

The man stirred, and looked up. 'There's nothing left,' he said, in a faint, broken voice. 'Everything's gone.'

The cats just stared at him, eyes fathomless, filled with centuries of knowledge and experience.

'I can't remember… anything anymore. I think I'm dying.' He dropped his head onto the piano again, as if it were too heavy to lift. 'There's nothing left,' he repeated.

And the three cats surrounded him, mewing, giving him all the strength they had, for they knew what he did not: that he had a son who searched relentlessly for him and had nearly found him, and a wife who loved him and missed him and waited for his return. And that one day, he would be needed badly by the Red King, to do what that great magician could not—protect the city against the enchanter Harken.


	4. Counting Stars

A/N: Here's an Amy/Lyell-centric drabble. :) Amy and Lyell aren't written about enough in fics, so I thought that I might as well write something about them here.

Counting Stars

'Count the stars and make a wish.'

Lyell grinned at her from close by her side, looking up with her at the Mexican night sky. Amy smiled back at him. The sky was beautiful tonight. There were so many stars, and no moon. She could count one, three, four, seven, ten, sixteen… The stars went on and on. There were probably billions of them, some too far away to see with the naked eye.

She closed her eyes and made her wish.

'What did you wish for?'

Startled, she cracked her eyes open again to find Lyell looking at her intently. 'We're not supposed to say,' she told him. 'It's bad luck.'

'Well, then… If you could have anything in the world, what would you want?'

She frowned, considering. 'For us to be together,' she said at last. 'And happy.'

 _And safe from the Yewbeams…_

'I like that dream,' Lyell said softly. She saw him gaze up at the sky, his dark eyes deep and fathomless. 'Myself, I wish that my mother and her sisters weren't so cruel. That my mother could grow a heart. That we could be safe.'

Amy felt herself shiver, and not only because of the cool breeze in the air. 'Do you think that they'll leave us alone, when we get back? We're not endowed—why would they care if we're together or not?'

Lyell shrugged. 'They love rules, and hate when people do what they don't like. They like punishing those who break the rules. And I broke the rules when I married you.'

He didn't add that if they had a baby—which they planned to, someday—the Yewbeams would never rest until they had it in their grasp. It was likely that their child would be endowed, especially since he himself wasn't. Endowments usually doubled in likelihood if they skipped a generation. And he didn't want any child of theirs to spend their early childhood in a dark, dingy castle surrounded by people who only thought of him (or _her_ ) as a tool to be twisted and molded.

Seeing Amy's worried expression, he added, 'But I think they'll leave us alone, if we stay out of their way.'

Amy looked dismally at him. 'And _will_ we stay out of their way?' She knew too well the streak of nobility that he had, that he couldn't _not_ do anything when there was someone who needed help. He wasn't like Paton. He had been at the mercy of the evil branch of the Yewbeams as a child—he hated to see anyone else be in a similar position.

He turned to Amy and kissed her lightly on the lips. 'We'll try, Amy,' he said. 'I promise you we will try.'


	5. The Woman

A/N: I felt like writing something about Lyell during his lost years, and this came about. It's basically Lyell's POV of Charlie's arrival outside Bloor's Academy in _Midnight for Charlie Bone._ As always, reviews would be lovely. :)

The Woman

The students of Bloor's Academy were returning from another weekend free from the Bloors, refreshed and prepared for the week ahead. He watched from the tower window, waiting for the buses filled with children to arrive in the medieval square outside the Academy gates. The boy who continued to take piano lessons from him would be there, among the crowds. An odd boy, very sensitive but also good-hearted. He was endowed, wasn't he?

Something caught his eye, and his gaze was drawn to the surprising sight of a woman and a brown-haired boy walking across the still-empty square. The boy was wearing the blue cape that all music students wore. He was most likely a newcomer- a returning student would have come to the Academy by one of the three buses. The woman, who was holding the boy's hand, had to be the boy's mother. She was beautiful, he noted dimly, even though she was dressed rather shabbily. She also looked very ill at ease, her eyes flitting anxiously around her as if she wished herself far away.

Something about her was… familiar. But how could that be? He'd never seen her before in his life. Or had he? Frowning, he scrutinised her, trying to place her. Surely he would remember _something_ about her if they'd met before. Especially her hair, which was a lovely golden-brown colour. But there was nothing at all-only a strange feeling in his heart. Who _was_ she?

Suddenly, the woman looked straight up at his window. Her face was completely drained of blood; her eyes were widened with alarm. His heart leapt in his chest. He _knew_ her-he felt sure of it. The only question was how.

Just as quickly, she turned away, kissed the boy on the cheek and fled the square as if all the fiends of hell were after her. For some reason, his heart ached at it.

Later, when he lay down to bed, he dreamed for the first time in years. He dreamed of _her_ , the woman with the golden-brown hair and startled eyes, eyes that seemed to see right through him. They sat together at a grand piano in a cosy-looking room, holding hands. She was smiling at him, speaking words to him that he couldn't hear. What were those words? He leaned in closer, but still heard only silence. Gentle fingers caressed his cheek; expressive blue eyes looked into his own with tenderness and love. He said something, he didn't know what, and she laughed.

It was then that he woke up. Staring up at the cracked ceiling of his room—his prison—he felt the sting of loss. Why, he couldn't say. He only knew that his heart ached unbearably when he recalled that woman in the dream, whoever she was, the words he couldn't hear and the tenderness in her eyes. Who was she to him, that he would feel this way?

He couldn't for the life of him figure it out. Soon enough he slipped back into sleep, and by morning all he could remember of that dream was that it had been about a woman.


	6. Yewbeam Castle

A/N: So here's the next drabble! :) This one's about Lyell as a child in Yewbeam Castle.

Yewbeam Castle

Yewbeam Castle was a terrifying place. There was no electricity at all—there never had been and never would be. Lyell had never wondered why; perhaps it was because Yolanda was so inherently evil that she couldn't bear to live in the light. Perhaps she just preferred the darkness, for some reason. He wouldn't have been surprised if that were the case. Yolanda seemed black through and through, just like the castle she owned. Lyell had never seen her any other way.

During the day the castle was dim and gloomy, with the only light coming from the few windows carved from the walls. Lyell took comfort in that, for the nights were freezing and pitch-black, and he was unable to see a thing, even when the moonlight streamed in through the window of his bedroom. It terrified him, this darkness. It reminded him of bad things, of nightmares and evil witches and monsters that could gobble him up without a second thought. He could almost sense malignant presences out there, and hear the bloodcurdling screams of the people unfortunate enough to get in their way. He would lie awake, huddled miserably between the blankets on his bed, trying to sleep but unable to, trying not to listen to the sounds of the night outside. Terror was foremost in his thoughts. If he shut his eyes, if he slept, they would come in and gobble him up, and Lyell Bone would be no more. As a result, he had little sleep, and his eyes were defined by the dark circles underneath his eyes.

One day he awoke to find his mother gone. Not 'gone away to the shops' gone, but truly gone, bags and all. It frightened him more than he could say. Without his mother there, nothing felt safe anymore, and everything felt huge and dangerous and terrifying. He felt truly alone, for the first time in his seven-year-long life. Where was his mother?

He stumbled through the echoing corridors, calling his mother's name, desperately hoping that it was all a mistake and she would appear and wouldn't leave him alone in this dark place with his strange aunt. And then, all of a sudden, Yolanda was in his way, laughing at him, and she was like he'd never seen her before. Her arms were replaced by writhing snakes, and her eyes were a deep crimson, like blood. Lyell shrank back, his heart pounding.

Yolanda smiled, and he could see the crags of her teeth. 'Well, well. It's just us two now, boy. We'll have so much fun together, won't we?'

oOoOo

He was eleven years old when Yolanda finally gave up on him. Her eyes gleaming with frustration and malice, she bluntly told his mother that she had had enough. 'He's not endowed,' she snarled. 'The only talent he has is with that stupid piano. Useless. I'm getting sick of him already, him and his insolent attitude. Take him away before I get tempted to do something _really_ horrible.'

His mother dragged him out of the castle soon after. It wouldn't do to stay any longer with Yolanda in such a mood. With every step they took she let him know how displeased she was with him. 'You told me you would obey your aunt, Lyell,' she complained. 'Why did you have to upset her so? It was good of her to look after you when I couldn't.'

Lyell didn't mention the beatings and the shape-shifting. She wouldn't have believed him if he told her; she thought the world of Aunt Yolanda and wouldn't hear a word against her. He kept himself mute, gazing up at her, careful not to be the focus of any more ire. 'Where will we go, then?' He didn't really care, but felt that he had to say _something_. His mother had that look in her eyes, as if she was waiting impatiently for an answer.

His mother gave a resigned shrug. 'You'll have to go to Bloor's, I suppose. There's nowhere else for you to go. I'm too busy now to look after you, and your Aunt Yolanda doesn't want you. And like me, your other aunts are far too busy to bother with an insolent child like you.'

Lyell didn't dare suggest that he could live with his grandfather near the sea. He knew that he'd only receive a glare for even suggesting such a ridiculous thing. His mother held a grudge against her own father and brother, because of something that happened long ago. She'd never bothered to tell him why, and he'd never dared ask her. He knew instinctively that it was forbidden to speak of what had happened.

'I'll speak with Ezekiel Bloor,' his mother was saying, almost to herself. 'You're a Yewbeam, though you have your father's name, and you have a great musical gift. Yes, they'll accept you without fail.'

He nodded, but didn't say anything. There wasn't anything else to say. The decision had been made—he could see it in his mother's eyes.

He was going to Bloor's Academy.


	7. The Dark Lady

The Dark Lady

The day her son crushed her hand is the day Dorothy Bloor died inside. Some might say that it was foolish of her to place her hand on the door-frame the way she did, but truly she hadn't expected Manfred to slam the door on her fingers. She was his mother, after all. Why would he do such a horrifying thing to his own mother?

It was foolhardy, perhaps, to think that she could have escaped them, when so many others (others _stronger_ than her) had tried and failed and paid the price for their failure. But she had to try. She couldn't stand it any longer, living that dreary life with a son who was a monster and a cold-hearted husband who clearly cared nothing for her. She'd seen the horrible things they had done, things that chilled her soul and made her weep in her heart. She had to go now, before the Bloors broke her like they broke their many other victims.

Her son had tried to stop her. _Look at me_ , he had screamed. _Look at me_. When she wouldn't (because she knew by now the dreadful extent of his hypnotic powers and didn't want to take any chances) he threw a fit. He screamed. He cried. Still she would not be moved. And when she tried to flee, tried to put her hand in the doorway to stop Manfred from following her… he had slammed the door right on her fingers. The most agonising pain she'd ever felt in her life shot through her fingers, and she screamed and screamed. Or she thought she screamed. And then she must have fainted, because a short time later she found herself strapped into a bed, with Ezekiel Bloor grinning maliciously down at her. It was over, he said gleefully. That ghastly old man had cursed her hand, the hand she used to play her precious music, and destroyed all her hopes along with it. Without her playing-hand, how could she make a living in the outside world?

She'd only been trying to escape the Academy and move on to a better life, perhaps teaching violin to willing students in Paris. Couldn't they understand that? She hadn't wanted to stay in that gloomy building any longer. Hadn't wanted to be party to their nefarious plans that brought so much ill to other people. Now she was a prisoner in her own home, helpless and alone. No one could aid her; hardly anyone knew about her. All the Bloors wanted was the money, of course, but she would _never_ give that up. So there she stayed, hopeless and lost and broken.

At times she wondered if this was her punishment, for not preventing Emma Tolly's abduction and Lyell's hypnotisation. She lived a half-life now, much like Lyell, helpless and trapped in the building that used to be her home. Now it was a prison, and she would do anything to escape it.


	8. Regret

Regret

Over the course of the years she was married to Harold, Dorothy witnessed the Bloors do many horrible things. Too many to count. But the thing she most regretted being party to was the abduction of Emma Tolly, and the hypnotisation of Lyell Bone. She was there that day in the cathedral square, where the transaction was meant to occur. Herself, the old man, her little son and her cold-eyed husband stood opposite Mostyn Tolly who carried the prize that they sought to acquire. Little Emma could fly, so it was said, and the Bloors were eager to acquire her for their own nefarious plans. The crabby, absent-minded man looked unhappy at giving away his daughter, but still he lifted the child, and Ezekiel reached out to grab her, his eyes shining with greed and triumph.

Years later, it still sickened her to recall what happened next. Lyell Bone had run out of the cathedral, shouting at them, trying to stop Tolly from giving away his daughter. It hadn't worked, and when Lyell struck Ezekiel, crippling him for life, Manfred turned to him with that horrible stare and the man sank to his knees with his hands clapped to his face. He then turned to the little girl, who'd been crying with fright, and silenced her with the same dark look.

It moved on very quickly from there. The little girl was thrust into Dorothy's arms, and Dorothy clutched her to her chest, numbed by what she had witnessed. She didn't need to see Harold's look of warning directed at her—she didn't want to speak or think about what had occurred ever again. She longed to erase it from her memory, but it was stuck there like glue, and she knew that she'd never be free of it, or the guilt she felt when she recalled the horrifying event.

She held onto Emma, and watched as her grandfather-in-law and husband discussed what to do about Lyell Bone. A phone call was made, and after that, Harold spoke quietly to Manfred. The boy nodded once, and turned to Lyell, saying, 'Look at me!' He did. A chill ran through Dorothy, and she almost gasped to see the man's eyes. They were blank, as if he saw and felt nothing at all. It horrified her so much that Manfred's next words flew completely from her mind; a moment later, when she finally came back to herself, it was over and the man was gone.

Later, she asked her husband what Manfred had told the man to do. Harold had replied, in a cold, satisfied voice that grated at her ears, 'He sent Bone back to his wife, for now. When it's time, he'll leave her to visit his mother and crash his car into a quarry. Then we'll take him back to the Academy. He won't be missed; the rest of the world will think he is dead.'

Bile rose up Dorothy's throat. This was what they did to people…

'He has a family,' she said quietly. 'He has a wife and a child.'

Harold glared at her. 'That doesn't matter. It's too late now, in any case. It was too late from the moment Manfred looked at him. We had to do _something_ about Bone, and this is the easiest and most efficient way.'

Dorothy shivered, but said no more.

Soon enough, it was done. Emma Tolly was renamed Emilia; Harold arranged for her to live with a childless couple when she was older, but for now she would stay in the Academy. The Bloors entrusted the child into Dorothy's care, and Dorothy gladly took up the duty. Goodness knew, the girl needed to be mothered, and she would get no kindness from anyone else. And she had to admit that she wanted a second chance to be a mother, even if it was just for a short time. So she cuddled and cooed and cared for Emilia, and tried to ignore the baby's unresponsiveness and the glazed, blank look in her blue eyes.

As for Lyell Bone, as far as the world knew, he died when he crashed his car into a quarry on one terribly foggy night. He was taken to the Academy, and locked in the Music Tower, where the Bloors planned for him to teach piano. They called him Mr Pilgrim. Dorothy meekly agreed, at least publicly. In the recesses of her mind, however, she still called him by his true name. _Lyell_. It didn't seem right, to let him be forgotten as Harold and Ezekiel wanted, especially since he hadn't deserved the fate he'd gotten.

She deeply regretted what had happened on that fateful day. As surprising as it would seem to an outsider, she had admired Lyell Bone greatly. She'd admired his courage, especially when it came to defying her husband and his family. It was courage that she lacked but always wished she had. Now there was little of that left in the man—in fact, there was little of anything. Lyell Bone was helpless, lost, a shadow of his former self. Perhaps he _was_ gone forever, as Ezekiel and Harold maintained. Dorothy did not like to think so.

Every day she would stand with little Emilia outside the door to the Music Tower, where they could both listen to the music that floated down from above. It was such beautiful, mournful music, and it brought tears into her eyes to hear it. And little Emilia would stir within Dorothy's arms, and blink up at her, and Dorothy could see that she could hear the music, despite the hypnosis. And so she brought the child to listen whenever she could.

Weeks later, she heard that the Yewbeams had a funeral for him. His wife, Amy, was said to be inconsolable, and although Ezekiel chortled at it, all Dorothy felt was a great sadness. It seemed terribly unfair, that a family should be torn apart because of the Bloors and their machinations. But there was nothing she could do about it, at least for now, and so she tried to ignore it all. Block it all out of her mind. Maybe it was cowardly of her, but what else could she do? She wasn't strong enough to stand up to the Bloors, especially after seeing what horrors her own son was capable of. She couldn't risk becoming like the countless victims of her husband's family.

But, always, there was a part of her, deep down, that recalled that terrible day with the deepest regret.


	9. The Boy

A/N: This one-shot takes place in _Midnight for Charlie Bone_ , during Charlie's first week at Bloor's Academy.

The Boy

Over the next week, he felt something change within him. He tried to hide it, for if the hypnotist began to suspect, he'd try and remedy it as he had countless times before with those pitch-black eyes of his. He couldn't let that happen, not now that he'd made so much progress in breaking free.

As discreetly as he could, he took to watching the boy. There was something _familiar_ about him—whenever he looked at the boy he had the strangest feeling that he knew him from somewhere. But where? And _how_? He had no recollection of ever having seen him before. And yet, there was something about the boy that gave him pause. At assembly and mealtimes (for he never saw him at any other time) he watched the boy and tried to place him, but failed dismally.

Despite this, he refused to give up. It was almost as if a part of him was compelled to it. There was no reason at all that he should pay any attention to a boy he didn't even know, even if the mere sight of that boy stirred something deep within him. Still, he didn't stop. He _had_ to know who that boy was and why he seemed so familiar even though he had no memory of ever seeing him before.

On Saturday (or at the very least, he _thought_ it was Saturday), he finally met the boy face-to-face.

It was when he was practicing on the grand piano. The usual cathedral chimes had begun to sound, and he stopped playing to listen. As always, something stirred inside of him at hearing those bells, and he felt his mind sharpen slightly. He stood up without thinking, and that was when he noticed the boy. He was standing just inside the room, in front of the closed door, turned away as if he meant to leave. But, seeing the teacher looking at him, he turned back.

The boy said something, and he strained to make out the words. "What?"

"It made me want to listen, sir," the boy repeated, slightly louder this time.

"Oh."

"I'm sorry to intrude," the boy murmured. "I'd better go now."

That was a sensible idea. The boy was plainly not supposed to be there, and if the hypnotist caught him there would be hell to pay. However, something inside of him was resistant. Just as the boy was about to edge out of the room, he made himself step toward him, needing to know the answer to the question that had been niggling at him for days already.

"Wait. Who are you?"

The boy blinked at him, as if he was surprised that he had to ask. "I'm Charlie Bone, sir."

"Charlie?" For some reason, the name resonated within him. There was something important about that name, he was sure of it. But _what_?

"Yes." The boy—Charlie—looked more confused than ever, and uncomfortable to boot.

He decided to spare him any more awkwardness. "I see. You'd better run along."

"Yes, sir." The relief was clear in the boy's voice, as well as his face. That wasn't surprising—most other children (and even adults) felt the same way after a conversation with him. And just like that, the boy was gone, clattering down the steps to the ground floor as fast as he could manage. The piano teacher didn't blame him one bit for it.

That night, he dreamt again, this time of himself sitting alone at a piano in a cosy room. He was playing something, though he couldn't hear what it was. Suddenly he stopped, and looked down to one side to see a toddler gazed back up at him with innocent brown eyes. He felt himself smile and speak, and again only heard silence. And then, a woman was standing beside him, her golden-brown hair hanging loose down her shoulders, her face like a blank tapestry. His heart skipped a beat. There was something about her… Hadn't he seen her before? His mouth opened, but the woman shook her head, halting whatever thought he'd been about to voice. Slowly, her hand reached toward him…

He found himself blinking into darkness, staring up at the ceiling in his bedroom. Somewhere outside, he could hear the cathedral bells tolling midnight, while a part of him that was usually hidden rose like the tide, aching to be set free. However much he tried, he could never break the barrier that blocked it, not fully. He could only listen to the chimes and try, though it always ended in failure.

After the chimes had died away, his thoughts turned again to the dream, but, tired as he was, sleep claimed him before his mind could begin to work. Hours later, he woke up to the dawn sky and the bells tolling, and he still remembered that dream. And finally he began to wonder.


	10. The Ruin Game

A/N: Here's the next one-shot. It's about Lyell (again) and is set during the events Chapter 20 of Midnight for Charlie Bone, specifically the ruin game and Paton's forcing the Bloors to give up Emma's papers.

The Ruin Game

Wind and drums echoed through the Academy, and the sounds of whispers that shouldn't have been so loud. He could hear them so clearly, and what they said sent shivers down his spine.

A boy was lost in the ruin. Not just a boy, but _the boy_. The boy he'd first seen walking toward the Academy, who he'd met in the tower room and watched at assembly and in the dining hall. He was in trouble. He'd gone into the ruin during the ruin game and hadn't come out again.

Fear gripped his heart. Children had gone missing before during the ruin game, but he hadn't expected that to happen to the boy of all people. Not during his first game. He'd hoped…hoped for what? And why was he even afraid? He shouldn't care, not like this, not about a boy he'd only met once before.

He'd been thinking again, about the boy, the strange thoughts that he felt stirring at the back of his mind whenever he saw him and what they meant. He couldn't understand it. There was something missing, he suspected, something vital, but he had no idea what. The only thing he was certain of was that the boy held the key to something.

And now the boy was in danger. He could only sit and wait and hope until it was over. The storm boy and the African were helping him; surely he would be all right.

He sat at the piano, unable to sleep as the drums and wind sang through the walls, and prayed with all of his might that the boy would be safe. In due course the wind died down and the drums faded away, and somehow he knew that the boy had been saved. With that knowledge stuck in his mind, he lay his head on the piano keys and drifted into a restless sleep.

The very next day, when the students had returned to their dormitories for the night, lights all over the building began to burst, accompanied by a strange humming sound. He found himself pulled to the open window in the tower, where he looked down at an awesome sight.

A man was standing the courtyard in front of the Academy- a very tall, dark-haired man wearing a long, dark coat and white gloves. Familiar… he looked familiar somehow. He could feel it deep within him. But he didn't dwell on it for long, for the man had begun to speak.

"Bloor!" the man shouted. "You know what I'm here for. Let me in."

There was no response from the west wing where the Bloors resided.

"Very well," the man roared. A second later, there was a loud bang, and the sound of shattering glass. This was followed by another bang, and another, and more glass shattering.

"Yewbeam!" a voice bellowed. "Stop it, or I'll call the police."

"Oh, I don't think so," the man retorted. "There are things going on here that you wouldn't want them to know. Now give me Emma Tolly's papers before I break every light in the building."

Emma Tolly… that name meant something to him. But what?

As he pondered that, there were more bangs, this time coming from the direction of the west wing. The scent of smoke and burning chemicals drifted up to him-the lights in the science lab must have burst.

"Stop it!" cried Dr. Bloor. "Paton, I implore you!"

"Give me the papers," the man demanded.

More lights burst and windows shattered, this time coming from the chapel. The remains of the beautiful stained-glass windows now littered the ground along with the clear glass of the other windows.

This, it seemed, was enough to make the Bloors comply. "All right!" screamed a voice.

Papers floated down into the courtyard from a far-up window. The man ran to catch them, and as he did he began to laugh, a deep throaty laugh that echoed through the courtyard. The children in the dormitories joined in but the teacher in the tower couldn't bring himself to.


	11. The Play

A/N: Here's the next chapter! It's about Lyell again, and is set at the end of _Midnight for Charlie Bone._ As always reviews would be very welcome. :)

The Play

On the last day of term, Bloor's Academy put on their annual winter play, a production of _Snow White_. The hypnotist visited him on the day of the performance, to make sure he stayed quiet. The play was of the utmost importance, the Head Boy said, and he wouldn't have him ruining it with his piano music. He could only nod and look suitably cowed, and pray that the young man didn't try to hypnotise him.

His prayer was answered. The hypnotist—Manfred—merely glared at him with those coal-black eyes and strode away, likely too preoccupied with the coming production to think of it now. But he knew that he would return eventually to do it. The only question was _when_.

In the evening the guests began arriving, including the boy and his mother and a plump, cheerful-looking older lady. The mother was smiling, but there was a shadow in her eyes that he couldn't help but notice. The boy clung to her hand, grinning with excitement, while the older woman looked fondly at them both. He turned away, trying to ignore the strange feelings that were welling up inside of him.

For the majority of that evening he sat on the piano stool and gazed out at the city, his fingers resting on the black and white keys but not letting them sound. From this vantage point, one could see most of the city, including the great cathedral from which the bells tolled every hour. Street-lamps lit up the pathways like stars come to earth, casting shadows across the miniscule-looking buildings. It almost looked like a patchwork blanket, or a toy-sized city he could never be a part of.

The guests left when the bells tolled ten. He saw the boy and his mother again, but didn't have the heart to try and recognise them. It would only end in failure anyway.

When the bells tolled eleven, he realised he was hungry and ate an oatcake from the tin of oatcakes he kept on the shelf that stood against the wall. It was hard as a rock by now, and rather tasteless, but he didn't notice any of that, still lost deep in his thoughts.

When the bells tolled twelve, he felt that _feeling_ again, of something trying to rise to the surface and break free. This time he didn't try to remember. He just listened.


	12. The Moving Tree

The Moving Tree

The winter break passed more quickly than he'd expected. There was no visit from the hypnotist, for which he had to be thankful. He spent most of his time in the music tower, playing and gazing out at the city. At other times he was wandering the halls of the Academy, wondering why each passage suddenly felt so familiar to him. Sometimes the hypnotist would appear and order him back to the tower, but at other times he would walk until he reached something that caught his eye. And he would look at it and feel something stirring deep inside of him, just as it had when he'd met the boy in the tower. He would touch the object, but nothing was revealed that he didn't already know.

He would return to the tower with nothing gained, not even a smidgen of recollection. Back to the endless playing and gazing out of the window into a world he wasn't a part of.

It was funny. The thought that he was not part of the outside world had never crossed his mind until the boy had entered his life.

Before he knew it, the first day of the new term had arrived. He sat in assembly with the other teachers, listening to the children and adults trying to sing in the cold weather.

'Do you call that singing?' roared Dr. Saltweather. 'It's a horrible moan. It's a disgraceful whine. You're musicians, for goodness sake. Sing in tune, give it some life! Now — back to the beginning, please!'

The boy was there, standing in the front row with the orphan. The smallest boys always sat in the front row. It gave him a chance to really observe him, and try to pin-point what exactly was so familiar about the boy.

There was a loud, violent cracking noise that shocked the entire room into silence.

'Good grief!' Dr. Saltweather exclaimed. 'Look at the old cedar!'

Then…

A flash of orange and red caught his eye. A movement. He stared out of the window into the area beyond the fallen tree, and his heart pounded. For there stood a tree—a tree with golden leaves and a reddish truck. A tree that emanated love, compassion and strength.

For a moment, he could clearly see what had been eluding him for so long. The woman's face, her kind blue eyes and golden-brown hair that she usually wore in a ponytail tied back with a red ribbon. Her face alight with joy as they kissed, his face mirroring her own, so happy that the moment had finally come. _That she'd said yes._ Then laughter, light and merry, as they sat together on a patchwork quilt in a familiar-looking room, playing with a baby that must be their son.

Dimly he heard a crash, and realised that he'd stood up, toppling his chair in the process. Beyond, the tree still stood, filling him with feelings that he couldn't describe. _You are not alone_ , it seemed to say. _Take heart, and fight._

The tree disappeared, as if it had never been there, but the feelings it had evoked in him remained. It was strange, how, as they touched him, they were like familiar strangers. They stayed with him after assembly had ended and he'd returned to the tower for the piano boy's music lesson. He didn't speak, _couldn't_ speak, but the pupil didn't seem to mind, waiting patiently for any constructive feedback but not expecting any. The boy's playing was good (more than good, in fact), and the teacher was pleased, though he never showed it openly. After the lesson was over the boy left, and he was alone again.

The hours flew by as he lost himself in the music. Close to midnight, he stopped playing and walked into the main tower room, prepared to go to bed. There was a boy at the high window, gazing out at the city. A boy who looked similar to _the boy_ , except his clothes were surprisingly old-fashioned, as if they had come from a different era.

'Motor cars,' the boy murmured. 'So many.'

'So many,' the teacher agreed.

The boy looked away from the window, and saw him. 'Are you Mr. Pilgrim?' he asked.

The teacher didn't know how to answer him. Everyone, even his fellow teachers, called him by that name, but he knew that it wasn't the name he had been born with. It wasn't his real name. No matter what the Bloors said, he knew that.

'I'm Henry Yewbeam,' said the boy.

 _Yewbeam…_ Why did that name feel familiar?

'I'm very old,' the boy continued. 'Or at least I should be.'

The cathedral clock began to strike midnight. At the twelfth stroke, the teacher found himself saying, 'Are you cold?'

'Yes,' said Henry.

Feeling something he hadn't felt in a long time, if ever, the piano teacher took off his blue cape and wrapped it around the boy's shoulders. It wasn't much, but it would have to do. It was too cold in the music tower at night to be without a cape.

'Thank you,' the boy said, with surprise in his eyes.

He felt himself smile—something else he hadn't fully experienced in years. Wanting to do something else for the boy, he reached for the tin of oatcakes that he kept on the high shelf and offered it to Henry.

'Oatcakes,' he said. 'You see I live up here, practically. And one gets hungry.'

'One does,' Henry agreed, taking only one oatcake.

He put the tin on the stool and said, 'Help yourself.'

The chimes had stopped; he felt the fog roll over him once more. He tried to remember, but it was no use.

Frowning, he murmured, 'Good night.'

And then he left, walking down to the stairs to the ground floor with barely a sound. Part of him felt guilt at leaving the boy in the tower on his own, but it couldn't be helped.

As he was making his way to his allocated bedroom, he happened upon Mrs Bloor. The Dark Lady to the students of Bloor's Academy. She had become a ghost of herself after her fingers had been crushed in between a door, and was often seen haunting the music tower. He'd seen her in the past, as he was leaving the tower to go to bed, and so this encounter was not a surprise to him. She stared at him with dull, hopeless eyes; he gazed back and stopped himself from asking her if they'd ever met. They said nothing to one another; their eyes spoke for them. Then they went their separate ways—she to the west wing, and he to his cold bedroom.


	13. The Boy From Nowhere

The Boy From Nowhere

Hours later, he returned to the tower and found the strange boy gone. The cape he had given him was thrown across the piano stool. The piano teacher felt a faint concern spring into his heart. The boy shouldn't be wandering through the building by himself. And yet, it wasn't much better staying in the tower, either, where it was freezing cold and extremely windy. Perhaps he went to find something to eat.

The boy came into the tower at noon, while he was at the piano trying to remember the chords to a complicated Bach composition.

The teacher looked over the piano and frowned.

'Excuse me, sir,' the boy said. 'Have you seen a boy? A boy a bit like me?'

'Yes. There was a boy.'

"And do you know where he is now sir?'

'He shouldn't have been up here alone.' Somehow it seemed important to point that out. 'Not at night. It's too cold.'

'Yes but — where did he go?' The boy seemed impatient to know this.

'He was hungry,' the teacher said absently. Finally, he remembered the notes he'd forgotten, and launched himself into a complicated piece of music. He didn't notice the boy exiting the tower.

Privately, he admitted to himself that he'd rather liked the boy. Henry, was it? He hoped that he would be safe, wherever he was now. There were dangerous people around in the Academy who could mean him harm. With luck he would be found soon.

ooooo

That night, after all of the other students had gone to bed, the hypnotist came to see him. His fingers stilled on the piano keys as he heard him approach.

'You forgot your cape today,' the young man said as he stepped into the room.

'I did?' It wasn't hard to lie-not when most of his life was a confused haze.

The hypnotist snorted but seemed to accept his words.

'You made a scene yesterday,' he went on coldly. 'I warned you not to cause trouble.'

'I'm sorry,' he murmured. He kept his head bowed; he didn't want to risk looking into those black eyes.

'Don't do it again. Or there _will_ be consequences.'

There was a pause, as if the hypnotist was waiting for him to say something. When it was clear that he _wasn't_ going to say anything, the young man gave a long-suffering sigh. 'I'm watching you, Pilgrim. Try anything else and you'll regret it.'

It was pointless trying to tell him that he hadn't meant to stand up during the assembly—that he hadn't even realised what he was doing until he was actually standing up. He couldn't speak; he couldn't tell the hypnotist about the red-and-gold tree that had helped him, or the boy from nowhere. Nor did he want to.

The hypnotist walked away. He was left again with relief that the hypnotist hadn't decided to hypnotise him, and fear of what could happen next time.

The words stayed with him as he made his way to his bedroom. There will be consequences. What consequences? More hypnotism? Or something much worse? The Bloor Family was capable of a lot of terrible things—things he didn't want to experience. Perhaps he had better listen to the hypnotist and keep out of trouble. Somehow, though, part of him hated the thought of that. Didn't matter, of course. If he wanted to avoid punishment he would have to do as the hypnotist wanted, even if part of him rebelled against it.


End file.
